lionheart
by like broken glass
Summary: unconnected harry/voldemort drabbles. iii – normal: All in all, it was just a normal day.
1. i - names

_**lionheart**_

summary: unconnected harry/voldemort drabbles. i – names: Harry Potter forgets things.

author's notes: I'm not too sure how often I'll update this. Feel free to leave prompts.

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_i -_ _names_

Harry Potter forgets things. Not common things, like say the days of the week or the order of the months. He can spell pretty well, though big words cause him to chew slightly harsher on his sugar quill and whine to his lover. He can do math; adding was easy, multiplication just added a bit of a crease in his brow. Sometimes the numbers just mixed themselves up; getting into fights, he'd tell himself – flopping on top of each other or turning each other upside down or switching places. The numbers liked to confuse him – playing games with him every time he'd catch sight of them. Often, his love would find him over a sheet of parchment giggling wildly at a plain set of number.

Harry knew that he didn't like Halloween, and though he could never remember the reason, he would stay locked up in his shared bedroom and refuse to leave the safety of his covers. Unlike some days, which he had no other reason but laziness when he repeated this act, his lover never asked him to come out and not waste the day. His lover had always been like that; there was only so much time in the day to live, to learn (to fuck him over the couch).

Harry also knew that his name was _Harry_ and therefore always answered promptly when someone said it (unless it was screamed from his lover's mouth, then he just kind of smirked to himself and bathed in smugness). However, sometimes he couldn't recall his middle name or even his last name. Harry never found it that much of a bother though – _Harry_ was enough of a name.

Once, a long time ago, his lover had told him somewhat sadly that his fickle memory had something to do with the traumatic events of his past. He had told Harry that his former (now diseased) enemy had bred the small, green-eyed male as a weapon and when his weapon started getting out of line, he had to find a way to make it do as it needed. "That," His lover said, red eyes glowing in the darkness of their bedroom, petting Harry's feathery locks softly, "Is when you came to me."

Of course, Harry didn't remember this conversation either.

His lack of awareness to certain factors had never caused him grief. He knew some things so firmly that they never once slipped out of his mind.

He could always trust his lover, no matter if someone was telling him not to or giving him information on his chosen's recent acts. He could always trust the warmth on the other side of the bed, no matter what happened.

He always applied a high-level glamour over the horrid mark on his forehead. He wasn't quite sure where he had gotten the oddly shaped scar (sort of like a lightning bolt, he had thought once, shivering), but he hated it with every atom inside of him. So every morning, even if he decided not to leave his bed, he would wave his wand and make the scar disappear from all of his five senses.

Don't ever, ever cry. Crying was bad, and it was the weakest sort of weak, so Harry never cried (not even when he sent away an owl, which made him want to curl on the floor and ball his eyes out; not even when he caught sight of a stray, black dog while walking through the village; not even when he saw the odd man around the large castle he called home that just screamed werewolf; not even when he saw a redhead or a man with a fairly long, white beard – two things which made him so sad and so angry that his hands shook and his lover had to restrain him from cursing an innocent bystander).

There was another thing Harry knew he would never forget, no matter how many memories seemed so hazy in his brain, no matter how many odd things that he could see and no one else noticed. The bright burning crimson of his lover's eyes, the way his thick, straight brown hair dipped onto his thin, pale forehead, the slow soothing rumble of his voice, his scent, the feeling of his hands...and most of all, his name. Even if Harry forgot his own, he would always remember his lover's name. Perhaps it was because it meant so much to him that it was incapable of fleeting like the other names he had once known. Or maybe he had just known his lover's name for as long as he could [not] remember and that kept it so alive in his mind.

Or it could just be that _Voldemort _was much more memorable then plain, boring _Harry_.


	2. ii - words

_**lionheart**_

summary: unconnected harry/voldemort drabbles. ii – words: Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.

author's notes: Thank you to _Sweet Moments_ for reviewing; your prompt will be the next one.

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_ii - words_

Words can hurt worse than physical pain, than torture, than slowly removing every one of his fingernails and carving that very word into his ribs, where it would forever stay, even when the monster had fallen to the fate of his angry lover's vengeance.

_Freak._

As a child, his earliest memory was not of his mother's soft humming lulling him into sleep or his father's rumbling laughter. It was that cold feeling that seeped into his bones, his soul – the feeling that had clung to him all through those long years of _hell_.

_Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me._

What an utter load of bullshit.

No had really understood that – why the articles in the daily prophet, calling him 'mad' and 'dangerous' had bothered him so much; why the whispers of his classmates made his neck burn and his hands shake. It wasn't until he met _him_, really met him without fear for his life or that of his friends, that he found acceptance.

Because Marvolo always whispered the words he wanted to hear – soft and sweet, gliding across his ears like a feather.


	3. iii - normal

_**lionheart**_

summary: unconnected harry/voldemort drabbles. iii – normal: All in all, it was just a normal day.

author's note: This is complete crap (I'm terrible at writing Bellatrix) and may not be exactly what you had in mind, but here you go! Thank you to _Justalittlebatty13_ and _Sweet Moments_ for reviewing. I will accept prompts.

prompt: Requested by _Sweet Moments_: "Bellatrix trying to mess with Harry so he'll leave Voldemort."

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_iii - normal_

It was just a normal day.

Harry woke late, savouring the allowed time as the summer holidays were almost over. He would return to Hogwarts in only a weeks' time to complete his final year. The year he would stop pretending, stop applying glamours and constantly having to push those stupid glasses up his nose. _They're a liability, Tom said. Anyone could take them from you and then where would you be? You'd come save me, of course, Harry smirked. _Nerves squirmed in his gut even though he knew Tom was a genius and nothing would go wrong. Their plan would succeed and they would have the world at their fingertips.

He could just be Harry_. Tom's Harry._

After waking, Harry took his time dressing (Tom had bought him new, comfortable clothes that fit him ages ago) and set about finding his lover. The brown haired man was in his study, bent over a piece of parchment, scratching furiously with a quill. Harry couldn't decipher if he was working on a new idea or his novel. _That was something no one would expect of Tom. But Harry knew every little thing about the older man; every scar that twisted across his flesh, every wound along his soul, every freckle on his stomach, every thought that passed through that brilliant mind of his. _Tom had been working on his novel for ages – rewriting and rewriting. He was still convinced that he would never get it properly written.

Harry just told him he was a perfectionist. Which he was – even if he liked to deny it.

Stepping through the doorway, Harry greeted Tom by running his fingers softly through the man's short, feathery locks. _Affection was giving freely, but only by one another. Trust meant betrayal and was rarely given._ Looking over his shoulder, Harry confirmed that he _was _working on his novel – his neat, curly handwriting spread along the page. There were a few scribbled out lines, but not large smudges of ink that Harry always ended up with when he wrote with a quill. He had always preferred Muggle pens – just like he liked Muggle clothes and Muggle music better. Tom didn't really mind all that much. _Tom's ideals had changed – not dramatically, but enough. Separation was the ultimate goal._

Tom was different than the deformed version of himself that had possessed Quirrell. _Much more handsome. _He had gotten a body back in Harry's second year – the body and mind of his sixteen year old self. He and Harry had exchanged a bit of blood to compensate for the life force he was stealing from Ginny, Tom didn't set the basilisk on Harry, and Ginny lived. _It was innocence and curiosity that made Harry agree. It was naivety and also knowledge that made him cut through the flesh of his palm with the conjured knife. Harry claimed that he knew, even then, there was something about Tom that made his soul thrum. _Tom had stayed in the Chamber of Secrets, briefing up on his history and being his strangely likeable, sarcastic self whenever Harry came to bring him food or more books. _Harry had never seen someone read so much. _However, during those long hours of time spent together, they had grown on one another. Tom had been mentally sixteen with no memory of the actions of his future self; Harry had been twelve and searching hopelessly for someone to _understand_ him. Neither Ron nor Hermione could understand Harry's mix emotions about the Dursleys and his rather bloody childhood. _Tom could._ It seemed only natural for them to find companionship in one another. _Tom held him when the nightmares got bad. Tom listened to his cries. Tom cared._

Tom had reunited with his older self in Harry's fourth year, but hadn't really changed much from the person he had come to be in Harry's presence – perhaps more fascinated with blood and a bit more scarred. _He still played with Harry's hair late at night. He still muttered under his breath while he read. _With more power at his fingertips, Tom had swept Harry away for the summer before his fifth year and that's when the plan was first crafted._ They needed a way to overcome Dumbledore and his manipulative ways. They needed a way to be together. __**Forever.**_

Harry found Tom had already eaten, so he headed down to the kitchens alone to grab a piece of toast from the all-too willing house elves. He considered getting his broom out. It was a pretty, clear day and wasn't too hot. _It was nice, being able to do just about anything he wanted. He wasn't cramped into a small, dirty cupboard listening to the sounds of his relatives anymore. He was here, with Tom, and __**no one**__ could take him away._

He wandered down the corridors of the large house, listening to the sound of his sneakers on the stone floor.

That's when he ran into her.

It wasn't abnormal to find himself in the presence of death eaters. This house was the base of Tom's forces – though he owned a variety of manors. The Malfoys were almost constant guests, being in Tom's inner-circle. Harry and Draco had made peace years ago. The blond had an odd personality. He had been raised with everything, leading him to be arrogant and exasperating at times, but he wasn't incapable of caring._ If you're his friend, he'd die for you._

"Aw, it's the little baby Potter." cooed Bellatrix immediately after she caught sight of him. Wild curls framed her face. Her tight, revealing robes were black and had small darker stains that Harry knew were blood. _He liked blood. It made him remember he was alive._

Harry stared back expressionless. Bellatrix was someone Harry was not particularly fond of and had voiced this to Tom more times than he could count. However, the insane witch had her uses. If Tom needed information from an unwilling party, Bellatrix was the one he sent. Though her mental instability made her very hard to get along with, she was loyal. _Too loyal, Harry thought. She gave everything she had to this cause. But so had he. Maybe he was a hypocrite._

"Did master kick you out of the bedroom?" She snickered, caressing her wand.

"What can I do for you, Bella?" Harry asked politely, sidestepping her comment.

Bellatrix_ hated_ the fact that Tom and Harry were lovers. As far as she was concerned, only she could fulfilled Tom's – ahem – _needs_ correctly.

Bellatrix straightened in pride. "My master has summoned me." She held her nose high. "Obviously because you are lacking the proper skills."_ Tom never complained._

Harry had to fight not to snicker – or scream in frustration. _It was difficult – being the Dark Lord's lover. But he was just Tom to Harry, and that's all that mattered._

"He is in his study."

Harry wasn't worried about why Tom might have called the insane Lestrange to his side. He trusted him. He also knew that Tom could handle himself should Bellatrix try anything...inappropriate. _He would also curse her straight to hell if she dared. _

Bellatrix huffed; she had been itching for a fight. "I don't see why he keeps you around. You aren't even loyal to the cause. You're_ worthless_." She spat. _Don't you __**ever **__doubt your worth, Tom said harshly, wrapping his fingers around Harry's chin. You are important to me; therefore you will never be just a shadow on the wall. Not anymore._

In an instant Harry had her up against the wall, hand wrapped tightly around her throat. "Don't you _dare_ speak to me about self-worth. One word from me and you can be six feet under. _Do you understand?_"

His voice was like ice, his dark emerald eyes flashing. Bellatrix suddenly understood why most of the death eaters feared him – their Lord's right hand man and lover. He looked like he was completely capable of splattering her insides all over the wall and not giving a damn about it.

Bellatrix nodded, unable to speak. _Good._

Harry released her, turned and began to walk the opposite way as if the scene seconds ago did not occur.

_I think I will get my broom._ Harry thought, glancing out the window.

Harry loved flying –pushing his broom to its limits, making swift and graceful arches in the air, feeling _weightless_.

_Feeling freedom_.

Hours later, when the sun dipped below the horizon and projected a rainbow of reds, oranges, and pinks, Harry headed inside to have a nice dinner with his lover.

All in all, it was a normal day. _The demons always lurked in his head, behind the thin curtains of his mind that kept his sanity intact. He was used to death threats and schemes designed by death eaters jealous and incompliant to his place in their circles. In the plan. But he'd go through heaven and hell and all the forces in between for Tom. Because Tom made him feel worth something. _

And that something was worth fighting for.


End file.
